Nurse The Hate

Friday, June 28, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate Wonder Woman

I love when a story is so spectacular, yet so completely
beyond comprehension you know that it can’t possibly be true.Yet, because the tale itself is so amazing,
the desire for it to be true carries it into an area of almost fact.A great example of this type of story is the
widely repeated story of Rod Stewart being hospitalized due to the sheer amount
of semen he consumed backstage at a concert in the late 1970s.I am not sure how much ejaculate the publicly
heterosexual Stewart would have had to have swallowed to be sent to a hospital,
but I think it is fair to say it would be “a lot”.As the average male produces about a
tablespoon of semen per ejaculation, this would lead one to conclude with
simple mathematics that the number of men that Rod Stewart would have had to
have serviced with oral sex would also be “a lot” to need to have his stomach pumped.Even those loudly critical of Mr. Stewart’s “Do
You Think I’m Sexy” cringe worthy 80s material would concede that it probably
isn’t likely that a man that has forfeited great fortunes due to his serial
womanizing would have veered into leading some sort of homosexual blowjob train on dozens
of willing men backstage at his own concert.Yet, ask almost anyone that went to High School in the 80s about Rod
Stewart, and you’ll get that story.It’s
just too good. You want it to be true.

Today I was minding my own business when I received a phone
call from a woman that began with a simple question, and ended with her telling
me a story so spectacular that I want it to be true more than anything. This is a story from a very conservative woman. Someone that has never told me anything even slightly off kilter. It was so out of the blue... So out of character... The story so amazingly crazy... I know that this story isn’t true, but it
just doesn’t matter.It is so twisted and
fantastic, I will remember it forever.

This woman maintains that two co-workers of hers were
attending a party recently in Los Angeles, somewhere in the Hollywood Hills.While at this party, they noticed a plexiglass
platform had been constructed ten feet above the assembled guests.It was described as a clear walkway leading
from a balcony across a section of the guest area.At a point in the party, with great fanfare, 1970s
TV star Lynda Carter emerged in her Wonder Woman costume and walked across the
platform.At almost dead center, she
stopped and removed her bottoms.She
then squatted down and shat on the platform with cheering guests looking up
from directly below her as the feces plopped above their heads.

There is no way this can possibly be true, yet who could
put all those elements of a story together from their imagination?Are we to believe that Lynda Carter, now in
her early 60s, is still appearing in public as Wonder Woman, not at Comic Book
Conventions or Nostalgia Shows, but at some underground scat party? Has Lynda Carter’s financial situation
deteriorated where she will accept bookings at this type of event “for the
right price”?How would one even book
something like this?Do you just call a
talent agent and say, “I see you have Lynda Carter on your roster.I am interested in booking her for a bit of a
“special event” I am planning at my house.Now, before you say yes, I have to be completely upfront with you.I’m looking for her to ah… um… interact with
the audience in a way that she may not be totally comfortable with at first,
but hear me out!” Is Lynda Carter your first call? Is there somewhere a tablet of crossed out names of other Hollywood actresses that wouldn't take the gig? "Damn it. Kate Jackson said "no". It looks like our Charlie's Angels party is off."What if instead of it being on financial necessity, she went to the party because she is into it? What if that's "her thing"? How great would that be? "Hey Donnie! Lynda is coming to the party on Saturday but she says she really wants to do her Wonder Woman thing. Can she come over around Noon to have her guys assemble the plastic walkway?" Maybe that's one of those "Hollywood Insider" things that John Q. Publics like me just don't know. Maybe if you ran into someone that is on the inside, somebody really powerful and influencial like Martin Mull or Justine Bateman, they would tell you all kinds of things like that after you bought them a few drinks and earned their trust. "Oh yeah. Lynda Carter has been doing that since the mid 80s. No one even notices anymore. It's not like when Merv Griffin used to always show up and jump on trampolines naked with little Asian boys. Now that was uncomfortable."

The image of an elderly Lynda Carter in a tattered Wonder
Woman outfit, barely held together due to the effects of age and consistent
use, wobbling out in the colorful boots while Japanese businessmen go wild under
a glass platform is too much. Afterwards I picture her walking around the party in a robe and slippers while party guests gave her all kinds of lip service. "Oh Lynda! You were great tonight! Just fabulous!" She would demurely accept the praise and offer small apologies, "Oh, I wasn't good tonight. I shouldn't have had falafel for lunch."

I know
that this story is utterly false.Yet, I
can’t shake the image in my head.It’s
too crazy.I want this to be true. I know I will wind up
repeating this story even with the caveat of “…there’s no way this is true, but
listen to this…” It's now stuck in my head. You know what? Now it's also stuck in yours.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate The Thunderstorm

There is a monster thunderstorm rolling through.I am alone in the house at dusk, the
power has been out for hours.The
lightning strikes flash across the room and the house shakes split seconds
afterwards from the tremendous thunder.A curtain flaps lazily from an open window and it reminds me of a
different time, a different place.The air smells like fresh rain and earth with that particular scent that
is only there in summer.Soon, too
soon, the massive lightning moves East and I am left with light drizzle and a
weak light fighting through the swirling clouds.The storm is almost over.

If I had a little more courage, I would take my clothes off
and run through the wet yards naked, hoping for one more down pour.I haven’t done that in years, and don’t
feel the likelihood is anywhere close today.I fear having to explain my chase for that feeling of
liberation to the community police force.“One more time Mr. Miller, what exactly were you doing running through
the neighbor’s yards potentially exposing yourself to children?Did you even consider the children Mr.
Miller?”Meanwhile I would be
stammering in an attempt to find the right language to make the crew cut
officer get my drift.He would
coldly stare down at me wrapped in a blanket sitting in the backseat of his cruiser.A small crowd of neighbors will have
begun to form nearby, with a large enough gap to keep themselves clean from
whatever perversion has afflicted me, but close enough to potentially overhear
my truncated childish answers.No, not today…

The storm has gathered up more steam, ready for another
go-round.The sky has darkened
again.Maybe this will be even
better than last time with the kind of lightning strikes so close you jump when
they hit.The kind of lightning
strikes that announce confirmation of man’s utter insignificance, but also make
a childlike wonder flicker inside.The candles I have lit provide a warm wobbling light that contrasts with
the erratic electric light blue flashes from the storm.There is a bottle of Cote du Rhone
across the room.It has sat near
me for years waiting for the right time.It would be perfect right now, but it’s not a wine to drink alone.Instead I will just sit here with the
storm.I will sit.And wait.For the right time.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate The Llama Show

There are many beautiful things to see in
North America.Traveling
extensively has allowed me to see a great deal of this nation.America has some beautiful highways
carved out of the landscape. Unfortunately for the Whiskey Daredevils, our
wheelhouse of Ohio/Indiana/Illinois is not included in the scenic beauty
highway short list. It is flat and monotonous, with the only relief
coming from the stereo and its blown driver side speaker. There isn’t much to
look at on that drive from Cleveland to Chicago. You can only watch Leo fall asleep with his eyes open so many
times... These long hours spent on the road require creative thinking,
and can spawn some ideas that are a little off kilter. For example, let's
discuss the idea we came up regarding "Llama Shows".

I think we were driving along a bland stretch
of interstate in KY when we drove past some Civil War recreation guys that were
towing cannons.That in of
itself is very exciting as you project what kind of lives these guys (always
men) lead. This time was even better as somehow mixed in with this Caravan of
the Damned was another guy pulling a trailer of llamas. They weren’t
traveling together, but what if they were?It really sent the mind reeling.

First things first…They may have been alpacas, and not llamas. I can’t
tell the difference frankly. I do remember that weird period of time when
there was a belief that herding llamas was a path to great riches. I
think you were supposed to get rich selling off their wool, as the common sight
of wealthy sheep farmers driving around in luxury automobiles presents
undeniable evidence of that assertion. The obvious wool shortage in
industrialized nations surely presents a real seller’s market out there for the
savvy llama owner.

I always look with a critical eye at the llama
farmer.The llama farmer is a
person that twenty years prior would have raised chinchillas, and before that
miniature ponies. They probably have one of those metal detectors in the
closet too.In my narrow view,
it’s someone chasing a get rich quick scheme.Now, like all wild schemes, the llama epidemic has run its
course and you just don’t see that many llamas around anymore. At least you
don’t see them being hauled around in trailers.

Or maybe there’s another reason llamas seem so
scarce nowadays…Perhaps the Llama
Show is so popular, in certain regions of the country that it has created a new
llama shortage.

The idea of the “llama show” is this… Civil
War Recreation guys enjoy shooting their guns and camping all Old Timey-like on
the weekends.This makes
sense.What could be better than
sitting in a stinky felt tent eating hard tack with a bunch of other dudes in
beards?The big highlight is
“re-creating” a famous battle.This is sort of sad, as it is really just some grown men playing army
like little boys.The ultimate
goal is to attract a crowd so they can show off all their gear, and have people
watch them fake die of a gunshot wound. This is where it gets tricky.There are just so many people that will
watch adults essentially play “army” in a field. That’s why you need a
little zip to draw a crowd.

Why not haul out some of these llamas, now
essentially worthless due to the Great Llama Market Collapse of 2006, and tie
them down at the far end of a field? I envision them on tethers tied to stakes
so they sort of wander around in the distance grazing.Then march the boys dressed up in their
Union Army gear or Confederate (depending on the show location) to the opposite
side of the field, close to the crowd. Tack on some sort of flimsy
historical storyline, like Gettysburg for example. Sell tickets at $10 a
pop (or $40 a car load) to the immediate area. Let people sit out in
blankets and beach chairs. Let them bring coolers.Sell the kids Confederate hats and toy
rifles at the Merch Tent.Make
them wait for the Big Show just long enough to get edgy.When the tension of approaching battle
has hit the highest mark, you shoot the cannons at the llamas with great
fanfare and cannon explosions. Make sure that the llamas are dressed in
the opposing army uniforms as best as you can muster, you know, for historical
accuracy.This entertainment isn’t
for everybody, but I think it will really play in secondary markets.I see a huge opportunity for Llama
Shows in places like Terre Haute IN, Huntington WV, Erie PA, Kalamazoo MI,
Winston-Salem NC, Bowling Green KY, etc.

I’m sure Llama Shows are happening now, but
they are small scale and underground.It’s time to take it out on a much larger scale.It’s going to take some work to launch
this thing initially.I would
advise buying as much electronic media as possible to drive ticket sales.
A heavy buy on the area classic rock and country stations would make
sense to drive ticket sales. Sample Radio Copy: (Cannon explosion
intro, big voiced announcer with heavy echo and delay) This Saturday
night at Dobson’s Park just ¼ mile past the dirt track, Wellington’s Llama Shows
presents The Battle Of Vicksburg! One night only! All the
firepower! All the carnage! Just like history came alive for ONE
NIGHT ONLY! (cannon explosion) Don’t be fooled by imitation llama
shows! Only Wellington’s Llama Shows has the historical certificate of
authenticity from the American Civil War Llama Association! Bring the
whole family for a celebration of AMERICA! (cannon explosion)
Wellington’s Llama Show presents The Battle of Vicksburg! This Saturday
Only! Get your discount tickets at any USA Roller Skating Rink!If it’s not Wellington’s (cannon) It’s
not a llama show!

Let me know if you’d like to get in on the
ground floor of this amazing opportunity.I think it has legs.I need
to catch a break.My chinchilla
business went belly up, and my Ebay store is floundering.This could be it though… It could be
it.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate The Wedding Reception

I was
eating lunch by myself in a restaurant.I took a table in the corner with my back to the wall, as I usually do,
so as to not make myself a vibrant target for a sniper.Though the pair of women was three tables
away, the one facing me had a voice that carried in a way that an opera singer
would have been jealous.She had
something to say, and she was going to say it.There was no stopping it.She
would be heard.

The woman
was one of those East Coast "I'm a career woman goddammit" types with
the overbearing manner of a future Jewish mother. If you want to know what is
wrong with you, I would think that if you spent ten minutes in the orbit of
this woman, she would let you know in the most direct manner possible.“Greg, maybe if you weren’t such a self-centered
asshole people would like you more!And
take a minute to iron your fucking shirt.You look like crap.”

Thankfully,
the focus was not on me today.Today, it
was all about her.She didn't so much
talk to her friend as lecture her with an angry tone on her failed relationship
history. Even from a distance you could see that the biggest issue in her
failures was plainly evident.Who could
handle that type of constant criticism?Most
men would just plain lose the ability to withstand the daily verbal
onslaught.She continued with her voice
rising in aggravation as her story continued.

Her last
boyfriend had taken her to a wedding. She and her boyfriend were
“serious”.It was all going according to
plan.They were living together, and
there was an expectation of marriage, children, and the whole bit. The plan all
went horribly off track at the wedding reception.The last thing you think will happen when you
are the guest at a wedding is discovering your boyfriend having intercourse
with the bride in the bathroom. I can certainly imagine how this would have
derailed the relationship. It's probably pretty tough to get past the image of
"your guy" thrusting into another woman in a bridal gown. Hallmark,
as far as I am aware, does not make a greeting card powerful enough to get past
that one.The relationship was over.

I would
have loved to have slid my chair over there and asked her some follow up
questions.What exactly happened when this discovery was made?What sort of scene did you make?(This woman would not have been the “tearful
exit with handkerchief held to face” type.I would expect lots of yelling at everyone as the crowd gathered.)How did you get home?Certainly you didn’t drive together like you
came.What did the groom do?How about everyone’s parents?Man, it must have been a hell of a thing.I have so many questions…

The actual
incident, while spectacular in a destructive way, is totally fascinating. From her
ex-boyfriend’s point of view, why did he think this was a good idea? I think we
can agree that the "sanctity of marriage" idea wasn't a big concern
on his part. Even though he appeared to be a bit of an amoral risk taker, going
for the bride at the wedding reception itself seems a bit over the top to me.
He either wanted to "mark his territory" like a junkyard dog or
the concept of forbidden fruit just drove him to insanity. If you want to
have sex with someone other than the woman you took to the wedding, the actual
bride at the wedding wouldn’t be the first thing that comes to mind.Even if he thought the bride was interested,
one would think that the timing of her actual wedding reception would have
placed too many constraints on action.Not for that guy.These are the
actions of a dangerous man.He has no
filter.Nothing stops him.He is a man that should be monitored closely
by The Authorities.

That was
when the story veered into the woman’s present boring dating life.I felt cheated.I felt the woman’s story lacked the obvious
follow up on the full explanation of the newlywed’s fate.I did have my theories.Maybe I am a pessimist, but I think the
marriage might have been over.When you
get divorced after a few hours, do you still refer to the other person as your
Ex?What is the protocol on that?If I had been either of them, I would have
hired a very good public relations firm, like that one that made us forget
Manti Teo is gay or swept the Tom Cruise divorce under the rug. It would
be advisable to move to a new city, or face having a decade of awkward
conversations with people you run into at gas stations.“Soooo…. I haven’t seen you since that
wedding…”

I am going
to grab lunch now.I will sit in the
corner, to avoid being an obvious target for a sniper.With luck, a man will sit down two tables
over and say, “Yeah, I’m not together with Shoshanna anymore.Wait… You didn’t hear about that wedding we
went to?”

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate the Chevrolet Citation

The Chevrolet Citation was never much of a car.A mere footnote in the grand history of
General Motors, the Citation was a car to buy when you couldn’t afford anything
better.Amazingly, I saw one
today, limping down Interstate 90 in the right lane, seemingly held together by
bumper stickers and hope.I have
not thought much about the Chevrolet Citation, and my own brief history with
the poorly engineered mid sized vehicle for years.I instantly recalled the stale interior smell of the Chevy
Citation I knew, so over powering that we called it “The Sock”.

“The Sock” was a car an old roommate of mine had purchased
after the untimely death of “The Seedmobile”.The Seedmobile, as I recall, was a Dodge Duster with an
alignment problem so bad that the driver needed the wrestle with the car just
to keep it on the road.If you
were at a stop light with the wheel positioning the car straight ahead, and you
pressed the gas while letting go of the wheel at the same time, the car would
wildly jerk right like you were making an evasive right turn.This car, while being “fun” to drive in
a sick-challenging way, was obviously living on borrowed time. When it finally
died and was sadly towed away one afternoon, the money paid for the parts was
used to acquire “The Sock”.

We never took to The Sock the same way we took to The
Seedmobile, as it lacked the obvious scruffy character of going in whatever
direction it pleased.Still, it
was somewhat reliable transportation, and that did count for something. We had
taken it for mostly local journeys until a spur of the moment road trip to go
see PiL at the Agora on the tour behind whatever record had “Seattle” and
“Rules and Regulations” on it.I
don’t remember too much of the show except for the amazing charisma of John Lydon
of PiL, and the strange glam metal attack of the band.

The real action of the night started on the way out as I ran
into my old girlfriend, who had been treating my current girlfriend
terribly.This should not have
been a big surprise to me as my old girlfriend was the roommate of my current
girlfriend.In my defense, my old
girlfriend had broken up with me in May and I had not started seeing the new
girlfriend until after a three-month hiatus from the area.I felt that as that I was the one who
had been spurned; certainly some latitude could be given to me, like hooking up
with her current roommate.I even
had a discussion with the old girlfriend to gain “permission”.I was way too young and too stupid to
understand that when a woman says, “It’s no problem if you want to see
her.I don’t care.” translates
roughly into “I will be so angry with both of you if this happens, I will do
everything in my power to make you both miserable”.I can also say without hesitation that even if she had been
that frank with me I probably would have moved in the same direction anyway,
but as I had “clearance” I felt as if I had the moral high ground.This was an error in judgment, but it
was how I felt at the time.Live
and learn.

As we start filing out of the show, I unexpectedly spot my
ex-girlfriend.The surprise
of running into an ex-girlfriend that you are angry with coupled with the
adrenalin of seeing a loud in your face band led to a rather unpleasant
exchange.I spoke intently with
very plain language on how I expected the treatment of my girlfriend to change
immediately or I would start doing terrible things of my own.No one in the general area was quite
prepared for what transpired, but I felt then, as I do now, that her bullying
had to stop.I will not stand for
that kind of nonsense and I am intensely loyal to those in my circle.It was an ugly little incident, but a
purpose was served.

This is where karma may or may not have kicked in.Perhaps I had been the bully in my
decision to go Def Con 4 on the Ex, because when my roommate and I drove home
from the concert a red light went on in the dashboard.“Hey… what’s that light?”It couldn’t have been more than 30
seconds later that the car stalled out and lost all power.The lesson to pull over as soon as you
see the “low oil” light had been painfully taught.We were on the side of the road at 1 a.m. in a dodgy part of
Cleveland with no real game plan.Seeing some sort of gas station up an embankment, we worked our way up
the steep urban obstacle.I was
disappointed at the top when we reached a fence we had to hop.I would say I was even more
disappointed when I sprained my ankle after jumping from the top of it.I struggled over to what turned out to
be a police station. The police, “protecting and serving” in a manner I was not
expecting, wouldn’t let us use a phone and directed us to a pay phone ¼ mile
away.

The only person we could find to help us after several
payphone calls was another roommate that was 30 minutes away in his
girlfriend’s Nissan 300Z.We
worked our way back to the car and waited as trucks roared by.It started to rain.My ankle started to swell.When our ride finally showed up in the two-seat
car, his girlfriend was inexplicably in the passenger seat.We launched Operation Clown Car.My friend sat shotgun with our mutual
pal’s girlfriend in his lap, and I was smashed into the hatchback like some old
laundry, my sprained ankle throbbing like a beating heart.I couldn’t move as I was packed in like
a canned ham.It was not my
favorite drive of all time.

We worked our way back to the car the next day.The engine had seized.The car was essentially worthless.We officially abandoned it on the side
of the road on I-77 after unscrewing the plates.It was the last I saw of that flat black Chevy
Citation.At least I think it was…
While the Citation today was black, and certainly faded in a manner consistent
with The Sock, it couldn’t be the same car.At least, I don’t think it was…Could that have been a PiL sticker on the back?

Nurse the Hate: Hate Jam Bands

The perplexing world of the Jam Band Universe has become
even more confusing to me.Although I
have felt a rather loose grip on this secret society in the past, I realize now
that I have no idea what constitutes the Jam Band Universe.It was once gospel that all bands that hoped
to consider tapping into the live music gold mine of summer festivals and
college campuses must have some sort of direct line to the Grateful Dead.The Dead was always the top of the flow chart
where all bands that wanted to noodle around on solo sections lasting 17
minutes must pay homage.That country
rock with the twinkle in the eye had always been the jump off point.What the hell happened?Where did the Cosmic Cowboy of yesteryear
go?

Allow me to explain…

A friend of mine came over to my place this weekend that
drags his eight and five year old boys to hippie festivals all around the East
Coast.While we can debate the point
about calling social services about his clear parental irresponsibility
exposing the kids to drugs and topless hippie chicks, this guy is somewhat in touch with this
scene.He is one of those white collar
suburban guys that listens to Sirius Radio “Jam On” 24/7, and has somehow been
programmed not to find bands like Umphrey’s McGee, String Cheese Incident, and
Disco Biscuits utterly reprehensible.I
don’t know how something like this happens, but I assume it has something to do
with a lack of parental direction at key times in his own life.

Let’s say that this guy goes to five of these multi day/camping/magical
hippies-in-the-woods events every year.He’s on board.Here’s the weird
thing.He can’t ever tell me who he saw.He doesn’t remember.I find it odd that he is excited enough to
travel to these shows, yet retains absolutely no memory whatsoever of who
performed at the event.He literally
cannot tell me more than two bands at a 73 band festival, and I would like to
stress that he is not smoking weed.I
think it is because every band sounds almost exactly the same, and he just
likes the idea of camping with his kids in the midst of something fun he used
to do.Now he is an observer, and
probably not much different than a bird watcher, with the exception of a well-stocked
cooler of microbrew and dudes named Electric Dave walking around selling acid.

I don’t know where the joy is in attending shows where you
cannot recall any of the performers or performances.It’s not my thing hanging out with 20 year
olds that think they may have been the first ones that have ever discovered
pot.While the multitudes of stylishly
unwashed upper middle class college students arrive in their import sport
utility vehicles, poorly cut sundresses, and ripped cargo shorts, I think we
can agree that the drug intake is probably a bigger deal than Moe’s set list.It’s a party, and as long as you can ignore
the fact that most of the music isn’t actually doing anything, there’s a good
time to be had in the mud.It’s just not
my good time. I don’t want to shit in either 1) the woods or 2) a port-o-john.

It was on Sunday while I was being driven to an ill-conceived
breakfast at an iHop with his children that I heard some of these shitty rap
influenced jam bands on his radio.When
did this happen?This crossover between
rap and jam bands is very odd to me.Rap
fan and hippie fan are like hyena and seal.It’s just two things that shouldn’t go together.Peanuts and bubblegum.Asparagus and peppermint.Table saws and nitrous oxide.These are things that have their place in the
wild, but never should cross pollinate.Groovy
hippie dancing is one thing, but then if the downbeat gets too crazy and arms
start flying around?Look, it’s just too
much…I hate it.

When the jam band universe is derivative of American roots
music, I can deal with it.The Grateful
Dead’s “American Beauty” and “Workingman’s Dead” are just really good country
records.That’s the stuff.So the Allman Brothers want to play “Whipping
Post” for 28 minutes?OK.At least 16 minutes of that is going to be
really good.However this new “wacky
hippie” situation where the pointless noodling around is tied together with
nonsense lyrics and flimsy pretense? The repeated rituals where everyone yells
out snippets of lyric...“Hey man, we
were in Chicago, and they totally played that song where they mention Chicago
in it.Far fucking out!”Then on top of that you are going to have a
DJ?I’d rather watch a guy in a beret
play a six string bass before I see white college kids in dreadlocks dance in
the mud to hippie hip hop.I think the
whole thing is a crime against nature and must be stopped.

I realize that this lack of understanding is clearly a
generational gap.I understand that I
would probably like some of these bands if I was willing to go camping in the
mud and load up on hallucinogens.This
is the crux of the issue.I am not
willing to camp in the mud, much less with a head ready to explode on acid
slipped to me from Cosmic Larry in a jello-shot.That train has left the station.I always have enough on my mind now anyway,
much less having to worry about what some stupid String Cheese Incident lyric
means.If I was twenty and worried about
what dorm I was living in next year, I’m in.You think I need to listen to never resolving jams standing in a field
of daisies with a skull full of bad vibes?No way.

I don’t think I can save my friend.Maybe I can save his kids.They need a trip to the Muddy Roots Festival
or Heavy Rebel.Fast.

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate Marcel Proust

I have made two (2) disastrous attempts at reading Marcel
Proust’s “Swann’s Way”. It is the first of seven volumes of the novel "Rememberance Of Things Past". I have made these attempts with the best of intentions. The most
noteworthy of these failures was when I had traveled to Paris and thought to
immerse myself in the famous French author and philosopher while strolling Saint-Germain-des-Prés
would be a grand extension of the Parisian experience.I had not counted on the fact that most of my
reading would be done in cramped coach airline seats with an old woman coughing
directly on my shoulder.It is not a
simple task to digest forty line sentences dedicated to the way a light shines
on a blanket when someone is gagging up peanuts on your person.I find this not to be a criticism of Proust’s
weighty prose but more of a lack of foresight on my part.It is perhaps too much to ask to weigh
matters of memory and perception when you are sardined into one of the planet’s
most uncomfortable resting spaces, that on a middle seat on an American
Airlines jet in coach class.

I wound up storing the copy of Proust into my luggage, and
instead read a large book of turn of the century pornography that I purchased
in a tiny bookstore near a café where I had been drinking a heroic quantity of
house Rhone.If you find yourself
interested in looking at a gigantic book of black and white photographs of
pudgy people engaged in a variety of sexual acts while dressed like pirates,
soldiers, and in the women’s cases almost exclusively distressed maidens,
please let me know.I believe you will
find the surprisingly in depth historical perspective on the photographs
interesting, as well as the almost total lack of sexual interest you discover
while looking at page after page of half erect pirates and very hairy ladies with
open thighs in distress.

This book obviously did me no good on the flight home as I
would have been labeled a deviant and not allowed back into the United States
thanks to an advance radio message from the flight crew to The Authorities. No one wants to look at turn of the century
soldiers emotionlessly entering hairy vaginas from behind and most certainly
not on a lengthy transcontinental airline flight.This is why I also purchased a copy of
Kerouac’s “The Subteraneans” at the same time I purchased the pornographic book
of interest.My Rhone fueled thought
process at purchase was that I would appear to be some sort of open minded beatnik to the
completely disinterested cashier, and not like some sort of American pervert
(which I clearly am).I’m not sure why I
was so concerned about the perception that the cashier had of me at the time,
but ironically if I had read Proust I probably would have been able to sort
that out more effectively.That Kerouac
is not much of a light read either, but I at least tackled that on the
flight.Proust would have to wait.

I have just finished Alain de Botton’s “How Proust Can
Change Your Life”, which is a distilled take on what Proust was about as a
person and his ideas as a writer.Who
knew that a guy that spent 11 years in bed would have such well founded ideas
on such topics as choosing a doctor, understanding interpersonal relationships,
and living life in the moment?Despite the
fact it was almost impossible for Proust to travel due to a mind numbing list of
maladies and psychological problems, he’s also got great ideas on travel.On one hand Proust convinces easily on the
concepts of appreciation of the moment, finding beauty in the everyday, and
making your life more enjoyable in the process.The downside is that you need to remember that this advice is coming from a guy that was a Mama’s
boy and a hypochondriac who was unable to effectively cultivate normal relationships.So there’s that…Regardless, if you can hack your way through
the dark jungles of 1910 French proper society and maybe some questionable translation choices, there are some timeless ideas
here. It must also be admitted, the task is daunting.

Reading Proust is one of those things that really seem like
a good idea until you are actually doing it.These things include snowboarding, gambling on roulette, drinking whiskey
in an airport, rec league softball, and ice fishing.Reading this novel is volunteering for hard
work.It’s a task for which there is
little appreciation by anyone when you have finished it.It’s just you out there all alone being told
by a long dead bedridden somber Frenchman “In love, there is permanent suffering”, "We are healed from suffering only by experiencing it to the full",
and sentences in the fifth (of seven) volumes that if stretched out would run
four feet long.It’s not for the weak. It's madness.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Got Juice?

Yesterday I was walking the hounds lost in thought, as I
normally am on a Sunday.Sunday is often
a day of reflection for me, and this Sunday was no different.The hounds enjoyed chasing a snotty young
buck and a small groundhog, and I enjoyed an unexpected field of daisies we
came across like they had been placed there by a Hollywood film.It is good to have time by yourself to try to
come up with solutions to life’s great problems and mysteries.Yet, as much as I try, I cannot come up with
the solution to as why LeBron James now appears to have the physical strength
of a comic book villain.

I watched the highlights of the NBA Finals last night with a
passive interest.I don’t like the NBA
as there is about as much drama in the proceedings as there is in watching Jaws
2.Most of the players seem like
assholes.The games are bad TV shows
that never seem to end, and now one of the main characters (LeBron) has grown
so large and muscular he makes Jose Canseco seem like a beanpole pussy.Even if you don’t like the NBA, and I’m sure
most of you reading this could care less, take a second and watch the highlight
of the LeBron James block of the dunk in the fourth quarter of Game 2.Can someone explain to me how a normal man without
the aid of considerable pharmaceutical help can stop a ball being thrown down
with as much force as a 6-11 240 pound man can muster as if it hit a brick
wall?How does one jump in the air, and
not have their hand move more than an inch when facing that kind of force
generated by another world class athlete? Can somebody legitimately check this guy for
steroids already?

I will go on the record and say that I dislike LeBron James
as only a Clevelander can dislike this man.I find his lack of character and sense of entitlement off putting to say
the least.I am happy when he
fails.I find his need to stack the deck
to create a scenario where he can win the ultimate argument that ends
discussion about his place in the pantheon of great basketball players.Most ESPN talking heads will go on and on and
on speculating about where LeBron ranks all time, how does he compare to
Jordan, blah.Let’s get some interesting
talk going.Is this guy on the juice?How long has he been on the juice?

I think it is logical to think that a player that has shown
a pattern of trying to gain unfair advantage of playing only on glorified
All-Star teams would be very interested in stacking the deck any way
possible.I think it is also logical
that a player that is under the huge amount of scrutiny that James is would
want to gain any edge to live up to the insane standard that has been set for
him.I also believe that the NBA, and
their culture of promoting “superstar players” over teams makes it impossible
for them to effectively police the monster stars that they have created.Why would the NBA teardown a player like
James when they have spent so much effort to build him?This is why no marquee players every test
positive for anything.

I find it hard to fathom that the only NBA player to ever
use steroids is Hedo Turkoglu.Every
other major sport has their biggest stars under the microscope and being found
to have had help with their superhuman exploits.The only exception is of course the NFL, which
obviously every single guy in the league is on enough juice to kill a rhino.We all know this, but we don’t care.Let’s be honest.However in our other sports, we want an even
playing field.So if Alex Rodriguez can’t shatter 75 years of
baseball records, Roger Clemons isn’t a better pitcher for 15 years than Sandy
Koufax in his prime, Lance Armstrong can’t win 37 Tour de France’s in a row,
and NFL lineman can’t suddenly be 325 pounds and run 4.6 40-yard dashes, why
does anyone look at the NBA and think, “Well, certainly there would be no
reason to take steroids if you wanted to jump higher, be stronger, and run
faster!Why would you want to do that in
the NBA?”If you watch the NBA game, you
see things that don’t make sense from a historical perspective.

Maybe Lebron is a guy that really has been hitting the
weight room.Maybe we should just ignore
the fact that announcers keep saying things like “he is doing things we have
never seen before”.Maybe I just haven’t
seen a man jump in the air, and without leverage, stop another man his size in
midair despite the obvious force that was created beforehand.Maybe I just need to watch more NBA and buy
into the myth.Maybe I just need to
pretend, just like everyone else, that it’s just another highlight and not a
piece of evidence.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate the Music Business

After a period of inspiration, the Whiskey Daredevils have a
new batch of songs together. Presumably this means we will go to the studio and
record “an album”. This is a bit of a Catch-22 as I don’t know if anyone but me
still acquires music in that type of format anymore.Music is now a free computer file that drifts around on your
email until it is loaded into whatever device it is you carry these files
around in.At any time you can
load into your device a lifetime’s worth of complimentary music in 60 minutes
with even a simple search of the web.There has never been a better time to be a music fan.This is the Golden Age of Music.All hail the death of music!

The fact that there is so much music out there and it is so
available has made it essentially worthless.A MP3 file attachment is just another piece of content in a
world completely overrun with content.There is no tangibility.At
the risk of sounding like an eighty year old man, “it’s not as good as it was
back in my day”.When I first got
into music, I would scrap together enough money to buy an album.This was a carefully considered
purchase, as you did not want to blow your money on a shitty record (like the
ones in the back of the stack in your bedroom you never listened to.Elvis Costello “Shipbuilding”, I’m
talking to you!)There was so
little information available to help you decide if Van Halen’s “Mean Streets”
made more sense to buy than the Scorpions “Blackout”.(It did) You would stand at the bin, sift through the
options, and pick up the record carefully examining the cover front to
back.Maybe one cover looked
cooler than the other… Maybe that one song you heard on the radio meant the
whole record would rock just like that one… It was an investment not only of
$5.99 but of time and consideration. You cared about that record by the time you got it home.

I liked the fact that you would put the record on, and this
magic would burst out of the speakers.You could sit and hold that record sleeve while reading the notes on it
trying to figure out “who the hell are these guys?”.You never saw a picture of Mutt Lange, but if you read the
liner notes you knew he hung out with and somehow helped your favorite bands
make this miracle on the record happen.What the hell does a producer do anyway?In the movies they sit at a mixing board and yell at people…
I wonder if Mutt Lange is like that…Hmm…

The Age of the File means that now there is nothing to
investigate.People import the
songs into their hard drive, and maybe never even listen to the songs in order
as one piece.Their MP3 player in
constant shuffle, they wonder “who was that?” when a song floats by.Listening is a solitary experience
spent with ear buds.There is no
interaction with the world of the ear bud, no exchange of opinion between
friends.Each person is left on
their own to discover music they like unless they are lucky (or unlucky) enough
to have friends pushing their favorite music on them.

Is this good or bad?I don’t know.It’s just
different I guess.On the one
hand, music becomes less communal.On the other hand, each person can connect to bands solely on a personal
basis without the overwhelming bias of peer group and/or fashion.Each individual song becomes the test,
and not a group of songs.The
attention span of individuals in American society is about 4 seconds.What’s on that channel?Click. Next.Don’t hook them in during the first notes?Click.Forward to next song.Simultaneously web chatting while texting while watching satellite TV with the ear bud from your iPod in the right ear.What?You have
the new so and so record from that band?Sure.Send it to me as a
zip file.I’ll get around to
opening it sooner or later.

The advent of Pro Tools and home studios means anyone can
record and “release” music.While
this will produce the occasional diamond, it mostly creates a sea of crap that
would otherwise never have seen the light of day.There was something to be said about a barrier to entry into
the marketplace.The old system of
labels at least insured that someone had to be interested enough in what you
were doing to consider risking money to make it available commercially. In the "good old days", if you were in a band that had a record out, that meant you were pretty legit. Now? To attempt to wade through all the shit
out there and find good music is a full time job.It’s not as simple as the idea of, “Oh, this is on Estrus
Records.I’ll like this.”.

Things to tend to go full circle. It has become like 1961 all over again.The cost of gas keeps bands closer to
home, so live music becomes more regionalized.Instead of bands trying to release great albums, the focus
becomes on getting that lighting in a bottle that is one “hit” song that cuts
through the clutter.Can you make
just one song that people add onto their personal playlists?That they will watch a youtube video
of? Something they will send to their friends and tell them "they absolutely have to check this out"? That will convince them to
download the rest of the songs and actually listen to them and maybe… just
maybe… come see the band live? It
ain’t easy.

If given my druthers, I wish the marketplace would allow us
to record 7 inch singles and release full length albums in one format that
would serve everyone at a scale that was economically viable.I love the packaging of the 45.The band puts their best song of the
moment out every three months or so.The B-side is a total fuckaround cut like a bizarre cover song or
original that doesn’t otherwise have a home.The challenge is also making a great looking cover that
convinces someone to take the $4 risk to buy that single.Then the band has about the three
minutes of that A side to either win that person as a fan, or lose them.If not for the “Girl From 62” 7 inch,
you know how much money I would have saved on Billy Childish records?

From a selfish point of view, I know we will record a full
length.It’s how I like to listen
to music.I know that this group
of songs works together and captures a particular time/place. Hell, I even think they are good songs too. Will anyone else listen to these songs
that way in the manner we intend? Does anyone care? Who knows. We are just doing what we do. The genie is out
of the bottle.The consumer
won.I guess they did anyway.There is a sea of crap out there.And we are getting ready to add just a
bit more…

Monday, June 3, 2013

Nurse the Hate: Hate Captain America

I have never been a fan of Captain America.I say this with great confidence even before
the filming began here in Cleveland of the latest shitty Captain America movie,
a film geared towards this planet’s Moron Majority.Captain America always seemed like a
desperate reach of a character that was a way to show the patriotism of Marvel
Comics while not quite admitting that they already came up with all their good
ideas.Once you get past
Superman/Spiderman/Batman, the characters get pretty flimsy, don’t they?Who’s down with The Green Hornet?Anyone?Ghost Rider?Let’s just agree
that all of it is pretty fucking stupid and a total waste of time.

My beef with Captain America is not focused on the slightly
dangerous nationalism the character feeds.It is also not based on the fact that I couldn’t sit through 20 minutes
of the movie even while captive on an American Airlines flight while crammed into
a window seat next to an enormous hairy Turk.No, my hatred of captain America is based totally on the fact that City
of Cleveland officials decided to close one of the major roadways into the city
to allow the studio to film for two weeks.My sort of annoying daily commute has now become a nightmare
commute for two weeks all so we can add one more horrible movie to the regrettable
canon of Hollywood comic book movies?Fuck this.

Even now someone is probably preparing to send me a nasty
little note about how “Hollywood is bringing in all sorts of tax dollars and
money into the city!”.Really?You mean like the Casino and Browns
Stadium?Why after the windfall of cash
those two shakedown schemes brought in, it’s hard to believe that every road I
drive on within the city limits looks like it was recently shelled by militants.Perhaps after this financial gift we won’t
have feral dogs and homeless wandering around beautiful “Midtown” like it was
the zombie apocalypse. I don't own a hotel or a restaurant. I'm not going to make a dime off of this fucking thing. It's also not going to reduce my City Taxes. It's all just a major hassle.

The city approved at $9.5 million dollar tax credit for the
filming.In theory, the trade off in
having the studio not having to pay the same taxes I have to pay for “the privilege of
working in the city” (as a tax official once explained to me) is that they will
inflate the economy with so much money to over compensate for this upfront
expense.This is further explained as
paying lighting, costume, crews, and extras.That’s great news for anyone you know that has been involved in regional
theater productions, because apparently the next time you see them they will be
drinking out of a jewel encrusted krunk cup whereas before they were moonlighting
in a bohemian coffee shop.Those
security guards standing around roadblocks must be making so much money; I wish
I owned a Porsche dealership so I could take in some of their windfall down the
line. And here I was thinking that people traveled in for the work... Here we are with a bunch of unemployed movie whiz kids ready to leap into action! Thank you Hollywood! No need for you to pay taxes like everyone else! I noted that the last film shot
here, parts of “The Avengers”, made $1.5 billion dollars (with a “B”), so why
should the studio pay taxes?Those
people are barely eking out a living creating triumphant statements like “Captain
America: Winter Soldier”.Cut ‘em a
break!

The good news is that Hollywood cares.Sunday Chris Evans, the lead in this
cinematic endeavor, sent out a message that he was sorry about the traffic
hassles, and how much he loves us.Of
course he does.I saw that a local restaurateur
immediately sent out a Tweet (which in itself is annoying) about how “not all
of us in Cleveland mind the traffic” and rideyourbikeCLE#.Yeah, I guess I wouldn’t give a shit either
if I was catering dinners out the ass for these people and making a mountain of
money off of them.And by the way, I
live in the real world and can’t ride my fucking bike 20 miles to work while
wearing dress clothes.Look around.Most of us are in the same boat.Get a clue Hipster.Hash tag.

Let’s be honest here.The only reason anyone green lit this obvious civic madness is because
it is a movie, and people love the idea of celebrity.The population gets tingly between their legs
thinking they just might run into a major talent like Chris Evans, star of such
impactful works as “The Nanny Diaries” and “Not Another Teen Movie”.Even the off chance that they might see a
cast member walking out of a restaurant gets folks giddy with excitement.“I saw Kevin Costner walk out of that
Starbucks over there.I was like, “Dude,
that’s Kevin Costner” and my buddy was like “no way” and then it turned out it
was!”.This story or one just like it
will be repeated for decades.That is
the tradeoff for allowing these pirates into the city to rip us off and fuck
with everyone that has to drive in to a “real” job.They get to waste 10+ hours of my time, and I
get to say “Yeah, did you ever see Captain America: Winter Soldier?You didn’t?Oh, well part of it was shot in town here.It was that car chase that looked like it was
in Germany?You don’t remember?Oh.Well, that was shot here in town.”

About Me

As the singer of The Whiskey Daredevils, a group of barely talented dead beat no frills rockers, I travel a great many hours in a van. In this van, many opinions are formed that need to be shared in this space. There are many things that make sense in the van that don't make nearly as much sense in the cold harsh light of daylight. This is not my concern.